Page 54 of Wolf's Return
D’Artagnon growled.
Aimon hastily retreated. “Edmond and Aubert arrived at the keep this morn. We know who the traitor is.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
D’Artagnon eyed Aimon and the two horses, his path clear before him. His brother had sent Aimon to fetch him, as promised. As soon as they returned to the keep, Gaharet would set out for the Vautour estate to confront the man who had murdered their parents. He clutched Constance close to his side. As much as it pained him to leave her, and entrust her into the care of another male, even a mated one, he must.
“Had I known you had shifted, I would have brought an extra horse.” Aimon turned to one horse and lifted the saddle flap to get to the buckle beneath. “But we will make do. I will leave the saddle here and Constance can ride with you.”
D’Artagnon shook his head. “No.”
Constance jerked her head up.
“I will not ride,” he said, softening his tone. He steeled himself for what he must do.
“I guess you have been wolf for so long it is more familiar than being on horseback.” Aimon shrugged. “I can lead Constance’s horse while you run along beside us.”
D’Artagnon eased Constance out of his embrace.
Constance shriveled before his eyes. She understood. She knew. “You are not going back to the keep, are you?”
The deep well of hurt reflected in her eyes, all but bringing him to his knees. He dug deep, recalling his oath to his father.
Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “You are afraid if your brother goes after the traitor, he may not come back.”
He cupped her face, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and brushed his thumb across her trembling bottom lip. “You were right, Constance. To heal, I must face my fears.”
Constance placed her hands over his and squeezed. A tear slid down her cheek.
D’Artagnon pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I have to do this. I have to go.”He released her and stepped back, turning to Aimon. “Protect her with your life.”
Aimon stepped forward, his young face earnest and his blue eyes troubled. “Do not do this, D’Artagnon. Gaharet awaits you at the keep. We are stronger together.”
D’Artagnon backed away from them, turning to face the forest, and pulled his tunic over his head. Leaving Constance was going to be one of the hardest, nay,thehardest thing he had ever done in his life.
“That which you think you want was never meant to be yours.”
D’Artagnon stilled. Those words. She had spoken them once before. In her sleep. He turned. Constance stood, a small, sad figure, her desolation wrapped around her as surely as her arms, but her eyes had glazed over. She was caught in the throes of a vision. He had once thought her words nothing more than part of her dream. He had been wrong. Her words had been meant for him.
His chest squeezed painfully tight. What he wanted was Constance, more than he wanted almost anything. Fate, it seemed, had other plans for him.
Had he not fallen on that battlefield, were he not faced with this nigh impossible choice, this beautiful, kind, giving, extraordinary woman would have been his. Hismate.But he had, and he was, and he had another purpose, and a duty to fulfill. One he would most likely not survive.
“Whatismeant for you is far greater reward, if you have but the courage and the room in your heart to make the right choice.”
D’Artagnon swallowed. He had found his courage. Thanks to her. He would have his vengeance and complete his vow. He would protect his brother and ensure the continuation of the d’Louncrais line. But looking at Constance—her golden tresses wet from their time in the pond, her upturned nose, her unique eyes—it did not feel like the reward he wanted it to be. Yet Constance’s words confirmed what he knew deep down to be true.
She was not meant to be his.
He dropped his tunic, strode to her and, snatching her up in his arms, he took her mouth in his. One last kiss, one last moment. She melted into him and his wolf howled in the silence of his mind. It did not want to leave her either.
He set her down, pleased with her flushed cheeks and her parted lips. An image he would cherish until his dying breath. “It was never your potion, Constance.”
Confusion flickered across her face.
“The deadly nightshade berries, the leaves and the roots. Anne deceived you. She did not slip it into my food. I would have scented it had she tried.”
“It was not—”
